Never Makes Sense
by eris-11
Summary: Rachel Morgan is a widow, and has been for quite some time. But of course, it's the hardest pill to swallow, and it doesn't get much easier when she realizes how close she was to losing her only child. Set after Out of Sight, Out of Time, just after the small private funeral for Matthew that was mentioned in the book.


"_But with all my education,_

_I can't seem to command it,_

_And the words are all escaping,_

_And coming back all damaged,_

_And I would put them back in poetry,_

_If I only knew how,_

_I can't seem to understand it…"_

_-All This and Heaven Too, Florence and the Machine_

Headquarters at Langley were quiet that day, quieter than they'd been in a while. Of course, the last time I'd been there had been during the wake of Joe's apparent defection, when everyone was running around like chickens with their heads cut off. It seemed almost like another life to me now.

The room where we'd elected to hold the funeral was long and pale, full of equidistant pillars and meant to hold a lot more caskets than just one. Sunlight flooded in from the long high windows, lighting up the hall in shafts and pieces. It was quiet too, but it had been louder a few moments before, when Abby and Joe and Chief Sanders and other people who had known Matt well enough to be there were still paying their respects. When they were inside, during the funeral itself, there hadn't been enough air—as much as I tried to breathe and force my lungs to work, there just wasn't enough _air_, as if everyone else had sucked it all away.

Not that breathing was any easier, of course, now that I was alone. Well, not necessarily alone. It was just me, sitting down, my legs crossed and my chin on my fists, and Matthew's coffin. It was beautiful and military-grade, made of polished oak with silver hinges, draped with a seamless American flag and topped with a single red rose. I had to admit, it looked nice, but of course it did—I'd folded the flag myself. Nothing but the best for my Matthew.

I sighed, shifting and sliding my hands up across my face. Even thinking his name hurt a little. When I'd first gotten the news—so long ago now, Cammie had only been a little girl—it had been like someone had lit me on fire. It was a burning grief and rage that wouldn't ever simmer away. As the years had gone on, as I'd tried to regain a semblance of normalcy while I still wore _his_ claim to me on my ring finger, things had gotten easier, if not exactly better. The pain of his absence had subsided into a dull ache, like a bruise or the pain of a gunshot wound the month after. But now, here in front of his final place of rest, it was like Abby was at the front door all over again, telling me Matt was MIA.

I'd been all out of tears for quite some time, which was why none came now and why all I could do was stare at my husband's coffin, this final proclamation telling me that I was indeed Matthew Andrew Morgan's widow.

I could just imagine him, alive and kicking and showing Cammie the best way to use the Wendelsky Manuever on a person over six feet tall and demanding that she stay away from boys. He'd given his eyes to her, that hazel color that was normally a delightfully average brownish-green but went dark with rage or a bit bluish with exhaustion or lighter and greener with joy. The greenest I had ever seen them had been on the snowy February evening of Cammie's birth, an event he nearly missed because of a mission but, in his own words, 'God Himself couldn't have kept me away.'

I wanted him back. It was all I had ever wanted, other than my daughter's safety. I felt my lower lip shake as the reality of the situation hit me: the two things I desired most in the world were the two things I could never, ever have. My hands started to tremble—my usual reaction to sadness, Matt had been the first person to ever notice other than Abby—so I returned to my former position, balancing my chin on my fists.

"You can come inside, sweetheart. Don't think you have to hover." I said, my voice hoarse from underuse. Being both a mother and a spy had my senses on permanent overdrive, which Cammie (as usual) didn't account for as she gasped in surprise. The noise echoed in the lonely hallway.

"Mom, I—"

"Take a seat."

Cammie did as I told and sat down beside me, shuffling and shifting. I didn't have to look at my daughter to know that her black dress was wrinkled and didn't fit her quite right because she was still gaining back the weight she'd lost over the summer, or that her hazel eyes were red and puffy from crying, or that the front right side of her cardigan was wet from when she'd wiped the tears from her face after the ceremony. As much as she took after Matt, I realized that Cammie had inherited my own penchant for rarely crying in grief—if we did, it was only tears, never sobs.

Neither of us spoke for a while. The only movements we made were Cammie leaning her head on my shoulder and me stroking her hair.

"I never wanted to believe he was really gone." Cammie murmured.

"Neither did I. Neither did Joe, or Abby, or anyone else." I took a shaky breath. "I'm sorry that you were the one who found his grave, sweetie."

Cammie sniffed. "I'm not." she replied, and I felt a wild surge of pride at the strength I heard in her voice. "I needed to see it."

_So did I._ "I know you did. But still…" I let her voice trail off, and then sat up, forcing Cammie to move. I took my daughter's hands, hands that were frail and elegant and dangerous all at the same time. "Cameron, can you promise me something?"

Cammie's forehead wrinkled slightly in confusion—she'd gotten that from Matt, too—but she nodded. "Of course, Mom. Anything."

I tightened her grip on her hands. "You need to promise me that you'll never go off on your own like you did ever again."

She opened her mouth to protest and I cut her off.

"I know how much you want to finish what your father started, Cammie. But there's already one grave in the Morgan family, one tombstone in the family plot. Don't add to that. You _disappeared_, sweetheart. You disappeared and _no one knew where you were_. You're not a mother, I don't expect you to fully understand, but put yourself in my shoes for a moment. Can you imagine how much of a nightmare this summer was for me?"

It was hard to breathe again, like the air was being yanked from my throat because Matt had taken it most of it when he died and Cammie had stolen the rest when she'd run away. There were so many things I could never tell her, like how the minute I got the news from Macey, it took her every ounce of willpower I had to keep from packing a bag and leaving Roseville then and there to track Cammie down and carry her home, or how I couldn't sleep or eat for the first two weeks, or how I cried at 2 AM one night at the end of September alone in my officer at Gallagher because I just couldn't take it anymore.

Cammie looked away, and she was nothing but a little girl again. Regret and guilt swept across her faith "I'm so sorry Mom. I'm so sorry. I meant to come back a lot sooner, I swear…I'm sorry you almost lost me." Her voice was shaking. I went to hug her and she cried into my shoulder.

"I'm not angry with you, sweetheart. I'm not angry at all. I was just afraid."

Cammie's voice was muffled and hoarse. "I was too." she whispered, gripping my jacket.

I was surprised to hear myself laugh, a sad and broken sound that I regretted my daughter bearing witness to. "You take after your father, you know."

"I know."

We remained there together for a long time.


End file.
